Text 20768, 80 rader
Skriven 2012-02-03 11:33:00 av MICHAEL LOO (1:123/140)
Ärende: back to Burtonsville 178
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A couple days of bizarreness at the house - the kid really
seems not to see the obstacles and detritus everywhere. I
kept to myself, refusing to feed him in any way as long as
the kitchen is kept in an unusable condition.

It was none too soon that I decided to escape to the Shipp
oasis again.

As the bus that goes to Burtonsville originates half a mile
from what I used to consider the greatest seafood restaurant
in town, and as visions of steel-gray delicacies were dancing
in my head, I allowed extra time for a nice meal at Crisfield,
where fifty years ago I'd tasted my first oyster, cherrystone,
and, most important, fried clam.

Nowadays a single oyster costs what a dozen used to - decades
of inflation, overharvesting, and consumer education have taken
their toll, and the cost of my meal would have fed pretty much
the entire back dining room when I first came here.

The oysters are still excellent, and they still give you a
baker's dozen if you order a dozen. The secret used to be that
they also gave a baker's portion if you'd order six, so those
in the know would order two half dozens. Nowadays they've fixed
that, so the price of a dozen is less than that of two halves.
Anyhow, as a few of my oysters were on the small side, I got
extra anyway, enough to essentially cover the surface of the
platter.

I watched the bartender, doubling as shucker and waiter, make
up my order: one for me, one, or two, or three for the pot. He
was pretty fussy, obviously putting out the smalls or imperfects
for cooking later, I noted approvingly. The oysters that came
out were perfect Chesapeakes, just beautiful. On the side,
cocktail sauce, extra horseradish, lemon, Tabasco, and the house
hot sauce. I ate the oysters, horseradish, and lemon separately
and plain. Tasted the house hot sauce, which was very mild
sweetened vinegar with a bit of red pepper and a bit of Old Bay.

On this visit, the fried clams were a disappointment: they used
to be big and chewy; this time they were little and shrivelled,
looking more like fried softshells, the ample breading way too
salty. The good part was that for an order of a dozen, 16 or 17
came out. Not that they tasted bad or anything, just that they
weren't the way they should be. And the actions of the shucker,
which I had applauded vis a vis my oysters, came back to haunt
me in this dish.

I headed back to the Z6 bus stop, only a little heavier in
weight but quite a bit lighter in the wallet, despite the fact
that 10-oz beers were only $1 each.

The bus takes just under an hour to get to Burtonsville Crossing,
where the Shipps met me, and on appropriate consultation decided
to look for dinner at BJ's, where Dale schmoozed the butcher - a
former square dance friend - to cut us a couple of extra thick
porterhouses for supper. These, with Dale's and my expert grilling,
were quite nice. Actually, I did a peculiar thing for mine - I
stood it on end so the fat dripped right down on the flames,
which increased the temperature a bit. It was good for the
exterior of the steak, but the fat ended up a bit blacker than
it should have been: won't be doing that again. Dale found a
Jadot Beaujolais-Villages 09 in the cellar, which was pretty
soft but with noticeable tannin and went well.

At BJ's we had also got some beef shin slices, with which we
were going to try to facsimile the short rib stew that Dale
had recently eaten at the Double T Diner.

We discussed the dish and came up with a tentative ingredients
list, which I recall included, in addition to the meat, onions,
carrots, celery, garlic, thyme, rosemary, tomato paste, and wine.

I browned up the beef and we put it in the crockpot with the
above ingredients. Set it on low and let it cook overnight.


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